


Narcissus In Bloom

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new Avengers adventure. After Emma Peel returns to John Steed's side, the pair have to work out their professional as well as personal relationship. When a series of murders attracts Steed's attention, Emma is drawn back into the spy world...only partially against her will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Fascinating problem," said Steed. "Three successful businessmen murdered in the last fortnight.”

Emma yawned and stretched one leg out. “They’re always successful businessmen. I would like an old-fashioned plumber for once.”

“Very odd, though. Found dead in their own homes, without a mark on them, and left holding a daffodil.”

Emma looked up from her papers. “Daffodil?”

“Daffodil.” Steed tossed the file onto his desk.

“And why does the Ministry care? Aren't there police in this country?”

“Two had business connections to prominent politicians. We’re looking for the link to the third.” He gave her slight smile. “Interesting, eh?"

“Mmm, and I’ll lay even odds that … ” She met his eyes. “No, Steed. You have a partner. Talk to her about it.”

“I’d rather talk to you about it.”

She watched him walk across the room to the sideboard and give himself another drink. It was very distracting, the way he moved. The shape of his shoulders beneath the tailored pin-striped coat, the slight contrast of his white shirtcuffs with their glinting silver cufflinks, tapering to his sturdy, powerful hands. Not to mention how he stood, the elegant line of his trousers ending at his black shoes. He looked better than any man had a right to look. Emma tried to turn back to her own accounts. 

“Besides,” Steed continued, sitting down beside her on the sofa. “I shan’t have a partner for much longer.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Ministry re-shuffle. They’re pairing her off with a defected KGB agent named Alexei something-or-other. Big, blond and brawny, not to mention a very charming, very trustworthy fellow. Tara will enjoy working with him.”

“Handsome?”

“I’ve considered marrying him myself.”

Emma laughed. “And I’m certain you had nothing to do with this little re-shuffle.”

“Not directly.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Tara’s been unhappy for some time now. She’s also becoming unmanagable. She’s endangered herself more than once because she’s angry at me.”

“I believe that she’s angry at the situation, Steed. You can’t just palm her off to some handsome young Russian and expect to make everything all right.” 

“She’s not in love with me, Emma.”

“From what I’ve seen, she’s got quite a crush on you, though.” She noted the smirk spreading across his face. “And don’t pretend you aren’t flattered by it.”

“Flattered? Me? Two beautiful women, absolutely agog over me.”

“Agog,” Emma muttered. “Your ego is colossal.”

“Point being, it’s unfair, not to mention dangerous, to keep her as my partner. I’ve spoken to her about it and it’s all settled.”

The look he gave her was decidedly suggestive, and not in the usual manner.

“Don’t even say it,” she said. “I can’t possibly take on the Ministry’s problems as well. I have a company to run, and a divorce to settle.”

“The one you managed quite well for two years while you worked with me. And as for the other … ” He grunted. “That shall take care of itself.”

“Divorces rarely do.” She sighed and slapped the papers on the floor. “No.”

“I need someone I trust, Emma.” He leaned his head back against the sofa. “You miss it.”

“No, Steed.”

“I only ask that you consider it.”

She knew that’s what he asked. And if she considered it for longer than half a minute, she knew what she would say. But she was reluctant to return fully to that world again. One small boon to come from her return to Peter was a chance to lead a halfway normal life, involved in her own work and not someone else’s. That Peter ultimately did not understand why she should want an independent life was merely another side to the problem she had with Steed. Steed understood, at least academically, and would never have tried to stop her the way Peter did. But he also would expect – did expect – that she would drop everything to play secret agents with him. She was not certain if she was ready for that again. 

Her gaze came to rest on Steed. He’d closed his eyes, the whisky glass balanced on his hip. 

“You’re tired,” she said. 

“Exhausted in body and spirit. I’m beginning to think I’m too old for this.”

“Rubbish. Get down on the floor.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Go on.” She plucked the drink from his hand and gently pushed him until he slid off the sofa and onto the floor in front of her. She could at least distract him. 

“Coat and waistcoat,” she said, tapping his shoulders. As he realized what she meant, he smiled and slipped the coat off. 

“You don’t have to … ” he said, settling back against her legs.

“If you thought I had to, I wouldn’t.” 

She slid her hands appreciatively over the broad planes of his shoulders before setting to work kneading on the muscles. He had lost weight in the six months since she’d been gone, and she secretly missed the slight bulkiness of his body. But he still possessed that same quiet strength, the combination of skill and brute power concealed beneath a veneer of civilized masculinity. His shoulders were testament to that: broad and powerful without being overly muscular. 

It would have been easier to get at the knots in his muscles without having to contend with the slippery silk of his shirt, but such an endeavor always ended the same and Emma was not quite prepared to indulge. She still harbored fantasies of returning to the Knight Industries accounts, which were in hopeless disarray since Peter’s return. 

But Steed’s responses to her massaging fingers became increasingly distracting. Her hand on a particularly tight knot made him wince, tighten and then relax with a breathy sigh. She worked her way down to the tops of his shoulders and then back again; the softness of his shirt over the tight muscles provided its own disarming sensuality, made far worse when he emitted low-pitched groan. As she reached his neck, his head dropped forward slightly and she slid her fingers gently over the neck muscles until he was practically purring – a distinct rumble in his throat that made her laugh. Her fingers playing over the short hairs on the back of his neck and down to the nape provoked a far different – though expected – reaction. 

“No tension,” she whispered in his ear. 

“You make it rather difficult,” he replied. 

She caressed the back of his neck before gently kneading the muscles there. He rumbled again, less a purr now than a growl. 

Knight Industries could wait.

Emma settled forward, opening her legs to hold him steady with her knees. She slipped her fingers down to the top of his spine, then leaned over and kissed the back of his neck, the corner of his jaw, down towards the pulse in his neck. He rumbled again, more insistently. Smiling, she loosened his tie, then opened the first few buttons on his shirt. Her hand slid down his chest, fingers twining in the sparse hairs. He tried to turn, but her hands and legs held him fast.

His reactions were flattering, and not just a little arousing. When she leaned forward, caressing his chest, he emitted a distinct grunt of pleasure. He was warm, solid, the flesh beneath the expensive silk shirt quite its own form of smooth. She managed to get both hands inside his shirt, trailing kisses along his neck and beneath his ear. 

“Emma,” he growled, and she was uncertain whether it was a demand or a plea. 

“John.” She ran her palm across a hardened male nipple. 

He trapped her hand against his chest. “You’d better come here.”

She rose and circled around the sofa. His gaze was intense, far different from the somewhat flippant attitude he'd taken earlier. She settled astride his waist. Very definitely aroused, she could feel him through the fabric of his trousers and her catsuit. He caught her mouth with his.

Emma never quite believed in the old concept of a second half, but she could have found no other words to describe her relationship to Steed. They understood each other from the start. Too close proximity to him remained an impossible distraction. There were no words to describe why he fascinated her. It was foolish of her to try and leave him – foolish and damaging. She might as well have tried to leave her own body. 

But in some way, fortuitous. Six months apart had only brought home how very much they needed each other. While she would have given anything to take back the pain she’d caused him, and herself, it seemed to have only increased their desire for each other. Their relationship had been far too easy, too comfortable. Perhaps it had needed some suffering, some confusion, to bring them together.

Then again, as his capable hands undid the zipper of her catsuit and caressed the bared flesh of her stomach, thumbs sliding up beneath her bra to tease at her breasts – then again, perhaps there was too much to be said for suffering, and not enough for comfort.

The shedding of clothes proved more difficult than she initially supposed, given their relative positions. But departure to the bedroom seemed like a needless effort. Somehow Steed managed to help her wriggle out of the catsuit; somehow she managed to discard his belt and ease him out of his trousers. By the time she settled atop him, let him fill her gently and thoroughly, they were both in such a state of desperation that the very act might have precipitated events had not Steed possessed the foresight to hold her tightly for a moment to keep her from moving.

His eyes burned her – that look of intense fascination, desire and respect mingled, even in such a compromising position. And love. Deep, admiring, un-killable love. She could not recall the first time she saw it in his eyes – it had been there for as long as she could remember. She laid a hand on his bare chest and felt the heart beating there. The heart he had given her, trusted her with. The heart she had broken. The heart she was working earnestly to repair. For not the first, and certainly not the last time, she wondered how it was possible not to love him. 

He began to move, steadily, rhythmically, and without a thought she matched him. She kept her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken, his breath grow ragged. His hands held her hips, tightening against them. The world contracted. There was nothing but him. Nothing but his hands, his mouth, his body beneath hers, inside of hers, the penetrating heat that surrounded her, the flashes of electricity that lit her. She loved him, she knew him, he was part of her.

He clung to her, half-sitting, holding her onto him, his gasps and moans delicious, his voice hoarsely calling out to her, a plea, a demand. He buried his head against her breast, and she embraced him. The deeper he drove, the tighter she held him, her nails digging into his flesh, willing him into her, willing his pleasure, knowing what she brought him, feeling what he brought her. It was too perfect, being with him. Too perfect making love with him. She could not bear it, never could, these moments when she loved him so tenderly and so intensely. When she saw how vulnerable he was, how she could have broken him and how he trusted her not to. When she heard him calling for her, half-crying for her. She could not hold him tight enough, bring him high enough. She could never quite bring him what she wanted to. But she could come very close. 

She was aware of his arms tensing, crushing her against him; of his sharp, urgent thrusts, his voice calling out to her. The world contracted closer. Nothing now but the shuddering roar in her ears and the fire that consumed her. Nothing but his final desperate cry and the waves of heat that started from within and spread outward across them both. She never heard bells or saw stars, but heaven knew that she heard him. She would not have wanted to hear anything else. 

As was usual in times such as these, it took some little while to return to a state of lowered consciousness. That consciousness brought with it an awareness of the situation. Steed had collapsed back with his head beneath the sofa, his breaths still coming in ragged gasps. Emma covered her mouth, but her body shook with silent laughter. 

“I fail to see what’s so incredibly funny,” said Steed to the bottom of the sofa. “I do believe I’ve had a coronary.”

“I was simply considering what someone coming in here would see. One of Britain’s top agents with his trousers down around his ankles and his head beneath a sofa, straddled by a half-naked industrial magnate.”

Steed laughed. “Human desire is a sublime and ridiculous thing. Shall we adjourn to bedroom?”

Much more comfortable now, to be cuddled up to his side in the soft bed. Emma did not feel tired – pleasantly lethargic was the word she’d put to it, as she rested her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder that she fit to perfection. 

Her mind naturally wandered back to what he said earlier. She supposed that he would not bring up their working together again that night. But tomorrow he would mention it, casually reminding her to think about it. Then the next night, perhaps more seriously, with stronger wording. Duty to Queen and Country. He would wheedle, he would manipulate, and they would argue, fight even, for days or even weeks. And Emma knew what the result would be. Steed would carry the day, as he always did. Because he was right. She did miss the adventure, the danger, the fun of working with him, of solving seemingly un-solvable riddles. She did not relish the idea of him going off without her, putting himself in harm’s way. Who could possibly look after him but her? Who would make certain he did not shoot himself in the foot, or fall down a well, or anger a diabolical mastermind with his usual combination of charm and insolence? 

“I’ll never get any work done,” she sighed, finishing her own thought out loud. 

“Was I the one who began all that downstairs?” he replied.

She looked up at him. “That is not what I mean. Your little ploy about working together again.”

“No ploy. I'd rather have you by my side, or at my back, than anybody."

There was silence in the room for a brief moment. 

“Narcissus,” she said. 

“I am not.”

“No: the daffodil. It's another name for a narcissus. I don’t suppose that the Ministry has bothered to check if your businessmen had water in their lungs.”

He paused. “Two men out of three.”

"There you have it."

"But they were found in their own sitting rooms. Where were they drowned? And why?"

She nestled down against his chest, listening to the gentle thumping of his heart. 

"I don't care."

"We'll talk about it in the morning."

"Mmph. Good night, Steed.”

Steed pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Peel.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You did this deliberately.” 

The look Emma gave Steed as he pulled the Bentley up the long drive to Wakefield House was not quite what he would have preferred, or expected. He had seen that look once before. It was during the most uncomfortable drive back to London of his life that followed the matter of Colonel Psev. He resolved then that he would never again keep her in the dark about any important matter, unless it was life and death. And perhaps not even then.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“You do know what I mean. There probably isn’t even a restaurant in …”

“There is, and they have a very fine claret. We’ll go there directly, just after this.”

“You lied to me, Steed.”

“I did not lie to you.”

“You lied to me.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead. 

Technically, he had not lied to her. He merely overlooked one or two salient details when he proposed lunch out of town that afternoon. Like the fact that another murder had been committed, the murdered man left holding a daffodil in his right hand, and that it occurred – coincidentally – not three miles from where he knew of a fine country restaurant that served an indifferent sirloin but an excellent claret. Still, he had not lied.

Steed pulled the Bentley to a standstill just outside the front door. Ministry men were already crawling all over the house, looking very busy and accomplishing very little. He went around to Emma’s side. 

She clapped her hand on the door. “Absolutely not. I shall remain here and listen to the rumbling of my stomach.”

“Emma, don’t you think you’re being the slightest bit childish?” He leaned on the door. “Come in, have a look ‘round with me, and then we’ll go to lunch.”

“No, Steed. I’ve quite enough on my plate as it is without murders and conspiracies. This is your job. You handle it.”

“Emma.”

“Be quick about it. I’m hungry.”

He walked off to the front door, leaving her to fume in the car. She really was being childish. It was quite evident that she only gave up working for the Ministry because it was inappropriate for them to continue to work together after ... that did not matter. Why should she put up such a fight now?

He might have saved himself the whole blessed headache, though. Everything he learned at the house he could have learned from a telephone call. Another industrial magnate – Neville St. John, of St. John’s Mechanics Ltd. – dead in his own sitting room, clasping a daffodil to his breast and looking for all the world as though he was asleep. The presiding doctor, Randall, could not pronounce on cause of death quite yet, but he’d,

“Been dead for sometime. Well over five or six hours.”

“Which puts it at some time early this morning.” Steed swung his umbrella and looked around the opulent sitting room. “Anything unusual?”

“Nothing that I can see, except … well, the daffodil.”

“Narcissus.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. You will let me know when you have the cause of death?”

“Through the usual channels.”

“Keep an eye out for water in the lungs.”

"He wasn't drowned, Mr. Steed."

"Still. Amazing what people put into their bodies nowadays."

Steed left via the large bay windows, to have a moment to think before he returned to the car and his quietly angry paramour. 

The grounds of Wakefield were expansive enough for a rugby pitch, with room left to play cricket at a pinch. They were recently landscaped, as evidenced by the cages that still supported fledgling trees, and the mostly undisturbed gravel paths that snaked down through the garden toward the lawn. St. John was newly wealthy and it showed, the studied formation of wealth versus incipient comfort in it. Steed noted all of it with a feeling of extreme disinterest. He should be thinking about the case, but instead his mind wandered back to Emma Peel. 

“Emma Knight,” he reminded himself. It would take some getting used to, but he’d rather forget that there ever was a Peter Peel to contend with. 

Not for the first time since her return, he wondered whether he should take a leave of absence from the Ministry. After all, he’d worked harder in the six months without her than he had for many a year. Cases solved, plots averted, villains imprisoned or decommissioned. He deserved a vacation, a few months to spend focused entirely on her, on them. To take her to Paris, or Switzerland, to the Lake District. Or simply make love with her on every surface in his apartment, and hers. He was not quite sated in that regard. He wanted more time to remember her, the body that responded so wonderfully to his, the mind so brilliant and inventive, the heart so generous and passionate. He wanted that time without having to consider when he might have to go to work, the chances of leaving her in the middle of the night to rush to some undisclosed location. He'd always hated leaving her, but then for most of their career together he never had to. 

Their relationship had been so simple before she left – so direct and uncomplicated. He wanted that again. They had been a team: they were together, they were partners, they were in love. When they worked, they worked together. When they weren’t working, they were at dinner, at the theatre, at concerts and luncheons, supporting each other through dull summit meetings, driving, flirting, competing, spending whole days in bed. He still felt an edge of bitterness that that had been so quickly and suddenly taken from him. 

Steed stopped walking and dug his umbrella into the soil at the end of the garden. He’d never consciously avoided romantic entanglement. His previous relationships simply never progressed to the point that he preferred to be with someone rather than alone. Until Emma Peel. 

He bent down, snapped two roses from the bush at his feet, and tucked one into his buttonhole. 

“Mr. Steed!”

Dr. Randall came running down the gravel path from the house.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“Mr. Steed, I … I found this when I was examining the body. I don’t know … but with the daffodils … I thought … ”

Steed took the card he was holding out. Randall bent over to catch his breath. 

“Florence Flo’s Flirtatious Flowers,” Steed read out loud, and then an address in Westminister. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Randall nodded, still heaving. 

He came back around the corner of the house to the drive. Emma was still in the front seat of the Bentley, engaged now in what appeared to be a heated discussion with a young man in a dark suit.

“I shall not repeat myself again: I am waiting for John Steed,” he heard her say. 

“Madam, we cannot have civilians…”

“I – am – not – a – civilian.” 

Steed held in a laugh. The young fellow had absolutely no inkling of how close to danger he was. 

“Then you can show me your red card.”

She sighed. “I do not have a red card. I am waiting for John Steed, he is inside and he will be out any moment.”

“And I suppose this, uh, Mr. Steed has a red card?”

Steed did not appreciate the smirk in the young man’s voice. He prodded the fellow’s shoulder with his umbrella. 

“John Steed,” he said, flashing the card as the young man turned. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“Mr. Steed? You should really inform the Ministry when you plan to bring your … girlfriend to top secret, hush-hush …”

“Murders? I will indeed. Can’t have those high profile murders being invaded by the general public, can we? Very good, young man. You’ve defended our country from the dangers of attractive young women in vintage cars. I’ll see you get a commendation for this just as soon as I’ve spoken with Lord Maxstead. He’ll be thrilled. Pardon me.” 

Steed swept the sputtering young man out of the way with one hand and climbed into the Bentley. 

“Peace offering,” he said, holding out the rose. Emma was already laughing. 

A few hours, a good bottle of claret and a surprisingly delicious sirloin later, and both of them were in better moods. Emma even went so far as to inquire, carefully, what he had found at Wakefield. 

“You know, I’m not certain I’m allowed to tell you,” said Steed. “As poorly as he put it, that young man was right. You’re a civilian now.”

“I’m still covered by the Official Secrets Act, Steed, as you well know. And you’re dying to tell me, I’ve seen it in your face all day.”

Her tone having shifted to pleasant inquiry, Steed had no desire to quell her interest. He recounted what Dr. Randall had said.

“What about the political angle?” asked Emma. “Does St. John fit in with the others?”

“Three out of four of the dead men seem to have been significant contributors to Sir George Fortescue.”

“House of Lords?"

“Mm. Very pro-business type. Of course, Sir George has a number of contributors who are not yet pushing up the daffodils, so it may only be a coincidence. I’ll have to look into it. Then there’s this.”

He produced the business card for her perusal. 

“ ‘Florence Flo’s Flirtatious Flowers’? That’s quite a mouthful.” She handed the card back to him. “It’s something to go on.”

“Yes. I think it too much to hope that the flowers actually came from there, but certainly there must be something in it. Someone will have to make inquiries.” He tapped the card on his nose and tried not to look too devious. “Shame I won’t be able to do much about it.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, this is the sort of thing that requires delicacy, finesse. A certain something. Can you see me applying to work in a flower shop?”

“No, I suppose I … ” She met his gaze. “No, Steed.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You were about to.”

“Emma, my dear, how you can mistrust me, after all these …”

“You know perfectly well how.”

“I am the most misunderstood of men.”

Steed tossed the card on the table and leaned back. He did not miss the look of interest on her face when those lovely brown eyes rested on the card for a beat longer than necessary. She wanted to know what the connection was between a flower shop in Westminister and four murders in the countryside as much as he did. But he would never employ subterfuge to get her there. Never. It was simply not in his nature.


	3. Chapter 3

He was a bastard. An unconscionable, manipulative bastard and he would pay dearly for it before she was through.

Oh, but he was very subtle. Emma should have seen it coming, but the lunch and the drive set her off her guard. Then he pulled the Bentley to the side of the road beneath an overhanging poplar, and looked at her with those warm grey eyes, and drew her into his arms. He kissed her with such slow, searching kisses, caressed her with those experienced hands that knew every pressure point, every inch of her body, every place to give rise to the most intense sensations – though not too intense, they were in a car in the open air, after all. All calculated, she now realized, to lull her into a false sense of security. He’d waited until that night, after an energetic and highly satisfying encounter that ended with her breathless, limp, and perfectly willing to acquiesce to anything he asked of her. 

Emma smacked her hands against the wheel of the Lotus. It was not sporting of him. He knew the effect he had on her – he knew exactly when to ask her, in that deep, insinuating tone he used in private, that sent shivers up and down her body and made her wonder if sleep was not an overrated commodity. And he’d asked her. And she, fool that she was, said yes. 

She wondered if it would ever become popular as prisoner interrogation. It certainly worked with her. She was driving to a flower shop in Westminister, wasn’t she? She was doing exactly what he asked, and all without an order or a demand passing his lips. She could have resisted that. But he would pay for it. She would see that he paid for it.

Tabulating in her mind exactly how he would pay – and in what positions – Emma pulled the Lotus into the nearest available space, not half a block from ‘Florence Flo’s Flirtatious Flowers.’ Steed would be round for luncheon and to see how she was getting on – if she got on – by midday. She did not see how he expected her to simply walk into a shop and get a job, but then he often set such tasks before her and she, often to her own great surprise, managed to carry them off.

Florence Flo’s Flirtatious Flowers was a well-appointed little shop, cool and brightly lit. The jangling of the front bell summoned not a elderly female florist, as Emma somehow expected, but a diminutive gentleman in tweeds, with a bright yellow pansy tucked into his lapel. 

“Yes, dear lady? Arthur Perriwinkle, at your service,” he cooed. “Ah! No, wait, let me guess. Flowers for a wedding shower? I can always tell, you see. You have the look of an expectant bride.”

“No, I was just … ”

“Not a wedding shower? Some grand occasion, though. You look like a woman in the midst of a grand occasion.”

He tapped the tips of his fingers together and smiled at her across the glass counter. 

His round face little up. “A baby shower! Oh, you really should not be buying your own flowers for that, my dear.”

This had gone quite far enough. “No, nothing like that. I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Flo?”

“Mrs. Flo?” Perriwinkle turned the color of the roses on the counter. “Oh, dearie me. Mrs. Flo is not in today. What, um, did you wish to see her about?”

“A job.”

“A job?”

“Yes, I’m a writer for a women’s home journal and we’re doing a survey of home establishments: flower shops, furnishings, that kind of thing. We like to come in and see how it all works for a few days. My card.” 

She produced one of the many false business cards she’d collected over the years. Perriwinkle stared at it, blinking his eyes rapidly. He looked a little suspicious … or perhaps suspected. Emma smiled her gentlest smile. 

“Mrs. Peel. Hmmm,” he said. “Hmmmm.” 

He looked at her, he looked at the card, he looked out the window. Then he crooked his finger at her. 

“I have a confession, Mrs. Peel.” 

Emma leaned over the counter conspiratorially. 

His voice was very serious as he said, “There is no Florence Flo.”

“There isn’t?”

“No. I made her up, you see. We cater primarily to gentlemen here. Some ladies, yes, but mostly gentlemen, buying flowers for the wife, the girlfriend, the mother, the female acquaintance. And I’ve found that gentlemen place more confidence in a woman’s touch. If they think there’s a Florence Flo back there, arranging the flowers, cutting the flowers, tending the flowers, well they feel all that more confident that their ladies will like the flowers.” He sighed. “You don’t know how difficult it is, Mrs. Peel, being a man in a woman’s profession.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

Having divested himself of his great secret, Perriwinkle straightened up. “I don’t suppose you’d care to write about that.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Perriwinkle, I would love to. It’s a delightful angle, you see, the man attuned to women’s needs, helping other men to better provide for their ladies. By the time I’m through, you won’t need Florence Flo any mo. More.”

This notion seemed to delight Arthur Perriwinkle. They concluded their bargain on the spot with a handshake and the presentation of a yellow rose from a vase behind the counter. Emma agreed to return following luncheon to take up her new position as a flower shop girl. 

“I really do apologize for my error,” said Perriwinkle as he showed her to the door. “But you simply had the look of a woman who … well, for lack of a better word, who has had a change in life, and for the better. If you will not think it forward, Mrs. Peel, I don’t suppose that Mr. Peel…”

Emma smiled. “There is no Mr. Peel any longer, Mr. Perriwinkle. Much like your Mrs. Flo, I keep the name for show.”

“Ah!” Perriwinkle tapped his nose. “But there is a young man, is there not? Yes, I can see there is. You must bring him round for some flowers. I’ll provide him with a bouquet that will melt your heart.”

Emma left feeling very satisfied with her new job. 

By the time she met Steed for lunch, however, she had concluded that there would be very little to gleaned from Perriwinkle. 

“He’s simply not the diabolical type, Steed.” 

“We’ve met those before,” he reminded her. 

Emma shook her head. “If he has any connection to it, it’s that one of his customers bought those narcissus.”

Steed tried the soup. “Then you must keep an eye out for him. Or her.”

Emma felt annoyed. “Have you found anything?” she asked pointedly.

“I’ve been to see Sir George Fortescue.”

“And?”

Steed shook his head. “Nothing there either. At least not on the surface. He’s naturally distressed and it seems genuine, but he had very little contact with any of the four men.”

He gained that petulant expression he sometimes got when a case did not proceed along appropriate lines. Or when a bottle of wine proved to be corked.

Emma poked at her fish. Strange how the annoyance of the morning had given way as she involved herself with something beyond her company and her divorce. Those things which had seemed so very important now seemed mundane. She was enjoying herself. 

She cleared her throat. “Since you’ve roped me in to this particular case, would you mind very much sharing some information with me? Like the identities of the dead men, for instance?”

Steed gave her a blank look for a moment. “Oh! I’m terribly sorry, my dear.”

As they ate, Steed gave her a brief overview of the case. The original three men were John Bettany, of Bettany Industries; Michael Waites-Haugh, of Haugh, Haugh and Haugh Amalgamated; and James Kent, of Kent Electronics. Emma knew each by reputation – Knight Industries, in fact, had dealings with both Kent and Bettany, though she never had occasion to actually meet with their CEOs.

“The odd one out is Waites-Haugh,” Steed was saying as the coffee arrived. “No water in the lungs, no connection to Fortescue. But left holding the flower, just the same.”

“What about other causes of death?”

“Bettany had cyanide in his system, Waites-Haugh was done in by rat poison and … I believe Kent by arsenic, or something like that.”

“So all three were drowned and poisoned?”

“Seems rather like overkill.”

The waiter stared at them, coffee cups poised in his hands. Steed flashed a smile. 

“The drowning and the narcissus of course go together,” she said, tapping her spoon on the edge of her cup. “But not the poison.”

“Narcissus was the fellow who fell in love with his own reflection?”

“Mm. Loved by Echo, whom he rejected, and eventually lured by Nemesis to a pool, where he promptly saw his reflection, fell madly in love with it and, incapable of embracing his love, died. That, at least, is the general story.”

“Hmm.” Steed looked at the ceiling. “It occurs to me that this love of self can be applied to a great many people, not the least of them being successful businessmen.”

“Do you think we’re simply dealing with a lunatic?”

“If we are, our lunatic follows a very definite pattern. Nor is there any point of connection except Fortescue.”

“And their professions. Knight Industries has had dealings with them too.”

"So have a dozen other companies.”

Steed called for the cheque. As they reached the pavement outside, he swung his umbrella, occasionally poking at the sky as though he could find divine meaning in it. Emma tucked her arm through his. 

“Follow the flowers, I believe is the next step,” he said. “See if you can get a look at Perriwinkle’s books and find out who has purchased narcissus over the past few weeks.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will go see the venerable Dr. Randall and see what he can tell me about St. John’s death. I’ll call for you after work.”

They stopped on the corner. Emma took hold of Steed’s lapel and threaded the rose she had of Perriwinkle through the buttonhole. She laid her hand on his chest. 

“Don’t do anything dangerous.”

“At a morgue?”

“You’ve been attacked in a nursery before, as I recall.”

Steed nodded. “And watch out for those thorns. No call in pricking those lovely fingers.”

“Always.”

But she did not move her hand. She stared at the rose. She thought of the other night, her hand on his chest, feeling that heart, so steady, so strong. Why was parting from him so difficult now? She’d done it plenty of times before. 

He tickled her under the chin. “I’m only going to a morgue.”

Never one for public displays of affection, Emma was surprised when Steed leaned forward and kissed her, very lightly, on the lips. He smiled at her, tipped his bowler, and strolled off in the other direction. 

 

“Cyanide, Mr. Steed.” Randall handed Steed the clipboard with his findings. “And water in the lungs, as you predicted.”

Steed was really not terribly interested in St. John’s cause of death. He wanted the opportunity to go over the contents of the man’s pockets, before everything was organized and packaged and put away and he had to have three different kinds of clearance to get at it. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary: wallet, appointment diary, cigarette case. He thumbed through the appointment diary while Randall talked. Meeting with so and so, appointment with such and such. No names jumped out at him. A more thorough agent would have sat down with the diaries of all four men and gone through them side by side until something matched. Steed had neither the patience nor the inclination for that kind of work. He usually proceeded on hunches. And his hunches were usually correct. 

But he had no hunches on this case. It could have been exactly as Emma said – an isolated lunatic with an axe to grind. An obsessive narcissist. A madman. A …

“He met with Waites-Haugh.” Steed did not mean to say it out loud, but when his eye ran over the terse script in the book, he could not forbear. 

“What was that?” Randall looked up from his chart. 

“Nothing. Can you direct me to a phone?”

The telephone was halfway down the long white hall. It was getting late in the afternoon. The halls of the Ministry morgue were empty. Not many bodies came in in the middle of the day, and it was a half holiday for the staff. Only Randall was on duty, and then just because of the St. John murder. 

Steed found the number in his own notebook and dialed. He tapped his umbrella impatiently on the linoleum. St. John met with Waites-Haugh. He knew from Bettany’s secretary that Bettany met with Waites-Haugh. Had Kent met with him? A phone call to his offices should determine that. 

Steed leaned on the wall as the phone trilled in his ear. Waites-Haugh was the only one without water in his lungs. What did that mean? What was special about Waites-Haugh? The third man murdered – the last before St. John. What was it …

“Yes, hello, this is John Steed. Could you put me through … ”

The most curious thing, that sudden pain in the back of his head. He could not seem to finish his sentence. The white wall was suddenly stained with a fast-spreading black splotch. He was very tired. The floor was very cold. The world went very black.


	4. Chapter 4

When Steed did not appear at 5 pm, as per their arrangement, Emma was perturbed. When he failed to turn up at 5:30, she grew annoyed. But when 6:00 rolled around and still no Steed, her annoyance was replaced with concern. It was not like Steed to be late without a reason, and very unlike him not to try to contact her if he was going to be delayed. He might have rung the nearby pub if he failed to get through at the flower shop, so she went around the corner to check.

Emma’s inquiries of the friendly publican turned up nothing. No man by the name of John Steed had called all afternoon. 

“May I use your phone?”

While she attempted to get through to the Ministry, Emma cast her eyes over the patrons of the pub as though looking for a friend. It gave her the opportunity to note the appearances of the two men who had moved steadily closer to her at the bar. They were well-dressed, youngish, but had about them that furtive air of inexperienced henchmen. The taller, blonder of the two wore what looked like a school or club blazer, with an insignia stitched over the breast pocket. She could not see it very well, but it looked very much like a white egg. 

There was a buzz on the end of the phone line and a tinny voice spoke.

“You’ve reached the Security Office. How may we assist you?”

“This is Emma Peel. I’m looking for John Steed. He was assisting Dr. Randall in the morgue; I’d like to know if he’s still there.” 

Emma did not miss the gentle twist of the blond’s head when she spoke. He might as well have swivelled his ears back. 

“Whereabouts of officials are strictly confidential, Madame,” said the Ministry secretary. “What is your security number?”

Emma sighed. She considered repeating her old number, but that would only inspire a search and then a resounding negative. 

“Can you at least tell me if he’s signed out?”

“I cannot, Madame. Mr. Steed…”

“Never mind. Thank you.”

She rang off. If she was his wife, she could have claimed family emergency. If she was his partner, she would have clearance. As far as the Ministry was concerned at the moment, she was at most his girlfriend and that did not give her clearance of any kind.

Emma checked her watch again. 6:30. No, Steed would have phoned, he would have sent a courier, a message, a homing pigeon. Clearance or not, security or not, Emma would not stand around biting her nails while he was possibly in trouble, injured or worse. 

The two men were still behind her when she reached the pavement. They were rather noisy, again in the manner of inexperienced agents who thought they were being clever. She hoped that they were only following her, but when she turned the corner, away from the bright lights of the pub, she was not surprised to feel a heavy arm come around her neck. 

He was surprised, however, when she threw him over her shoulder and he landed with a crash against a rubbish bin. 

The blond one moved faster and with more expertise, feinting off to the side and then lunging towards her at an angle. She stepped out of his lunge, grabbed his extended hand as he went past and twisted his arm about until it was pinned behind his back. Another step and she could break his arm, but the other one had recovered by then and rushed her. Emma found herself wrestling with them both – the blond trying to break her hold while the other grabbed her in a bear hug. She shoved off the ground with both feet and released the blond. Her captor staggered back under her suddenly moving weight and she was pleased at the noise his head made when he slammed into the wall of the building. His grip relaxed. She took the opportunity to elbow him hard just below his ribs. The blond was up and coming at her again as she regained her balance. Suddenly his hands were around her throat, his handsome face only inches from her own, teeth gritted in as he pressed his thumbs into her larynx. Gasping in air, she raised her elbows and brought them down over his wrists. She heard one satisfying snap and he staggered back with a cry of pain. 

They evidently decided they’d had enough. The one against the wall was up and running while the blond glared at her for a moment with murder in his face. By the time she was able to move forward to grab him, he was off down the street, holding his injured wrist. 

Out of breath and a little pained, Emma took a moment to recover herself. Surely this was no coincidence. A wave of fear passed over her – if they knew about her, they knew about Steed. She had sudden visions of him in desperate danger, alone, without her. She ran off down the block towards the Lotus, determined to break into the Ministry if she had to.

It was a source of some surprise when she discerned the tall familiar figure with bowler and brolly, leaning against the door of the Lotus fully as though he’d paused to light a cigarette.

“Steed?”

He looked up. Whatever he saw in her face, his reflected a certain amount of surprise and concern. She came quickly up to him. His face was slightly pale in the light of the streetlamp and there was a cut just above his left eyebrow. 

“I’m awfully sorry I’m late,” he said.

“What happened?” She touched the still-bleeding mark. 

“Darnedest thing. A phantom must have hit me with a cricket bat while I was making a telephone call. That’s the only explanation. I got that when my head hit the floor.” He paused. “Dr. Randall’s dead.”

“Well I just danced with two not terribly adept partners,” she said.

“Mmph. Things appear to be hotting up. We've scared someone, somewhere."

“Can you drive?”

“I drove here, but I’d … I’d much rather leave it here. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Emma unlocked the door. He did look a little woozy. Climbing into the car, he did not move with his usual casual elegance.

On the way back to Steed’s apartment, he recounted for her what happened at the Ministry morgue. 

“When I woke it was nearly six o’clock, my head felt as though it had been kicked by a pony, the appointment book was gone and Dr. Randall … he was very much dead. Neck broken.”

“And no one saw or heard anyone come in or out?”

“No, but there’s few who would. A secretary on duty upstairs, perhaps, but the morgue is not high priority. The half-holiday means there’s minimal staff.”

Emma snorted. “And they were worried that telling me where you were would breach security.”

“Ah, yes. I shall have to obtain a new security number for you. For this case.” 

He added the last as a very pointed afterthought that Emma did not have the energy to address. 

“So someone broke in, hit you and kill Dr. Randall for an appointment book?”

“So it seems. Nothing else was missing from St. John’s effects.”

“What was in it?”

“Not much that I could see. Except for the appointment with Waites-Haugh a week before he died, there was nothing that raised any red flags.” He touched the back of his head. “Perhaps something should have.”

There was a bitterness in his voice that Emma knew only too well. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Steed.”

“I didn’t do much to stop it.” He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. They weren’t very experienced. I rather wonder if they weren’t sent to frighten me.”

Steed passed his hand over his face. “They’re doing a bang-up job, then.”

He maintained a studied silence the rest of the way home. 

Home was a welcome sight and bed would be even more welcome. Immediately upon letting them in, Steed crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a large brandy. He was moving a bit more steadily now and his face had regained some color. 

“Would you like one?” he asked, raising the decanter. 

“No. I’ll just go and change.” 

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Emma clicked the top light on. She’d barely touched the bottom stair when she heard a cry from behind her, an arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back until she almost crashed into the kitchen counter. 

“What…” she began, furious, then stopped. 

Steed knelt on the first stair, his brow furrowed. 

“What is it?” she asked, bending over his shoulder. 

“Trip wire.” 

He pointed at the glittering white wire strung across the third stair from the bottom. It coiled around and beneath the staircase.

“Would you mind very much getting the black scissors from the kitchen drawer?”

By the time she brought them to him, he’d located the device beneath the third stair and carefully detached it. It was a simple mechanism on a hair trigger. Taking up the scissors, he clipped the wire off the trigger, then cut the red fuse in two.

“A bomb.” Emma sat down beside him. “This is becoming highly diabolical, Steed.”

“My dear Mrs. Peel, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Steed reclined on the bed with his eyes closed. His head still ached slightly, but he was more tired and put-out than anything. He did not like being knocked out, he did not like men murdered under his very nose, he very much did not like his apartment being broken into and his life attempted upon. Not to mention the harm that might have come to Emma, which he preferred not to consider too deeply.

He opened his eyes when Emma came into the room with the much-needed brandy. She looked lovely in her blue catsuit fringed with green … but then she always looked lovely. He felt a brief rush of anger at the red finger marks that still marred her beautiful neck. Whoever was behind this would pay deeply and dearly.

“Feeling better?” she asked. 

“This will help. Thank you.” 

He tasted the brandy and sighed. Emma climbed into bed beside him, her shoulder up against his.

“It seems to me that everything is getting murkier rather than clearer,” she said. 

“Resoundingly so. Drowned industrialists …”

“Narcissus…”

“Dr. Randall … ”

“You being hit … ”

“You being attacked…” 

“And then the bomb.” 

Steed shook his head. “And it all comes back to Waites-Haugh, the odd man out, the link.”

“Waites-Haugh and Florence Flo’s Flirtatious Flowers.” Emma leaned back against the headboard. “What’s the connection, Steed?”

“Horticulture? Strange surnames?”

“And the insignia on the young man’s jacket? A white egg.”

“Strange sort of crest. Royal Order of Chicken Farmers perhaps. I’ll look into it tomorrow. If it’s a club insignia, we’ll have some line on him.”

He yawned. The brandy was already doing its work. His brain was calming down and his body along with it. 

He took Emma’s hand and held it up. It was a beautiful hand, well-tended, yet he knew that it was capable of exceptional power. He’d seen her practically kill with her bare hands. Yet it felt so warm and gentle in his own. 

Steed pressed his lips to the knuckles. He kissed the smooth skin, up to the wrist and turned it over. Her hand caressed his face as he found the pulse point on her wrist. She slid her fingers up across his cheek and into his hair, drawing his head down until he rested against her breast.

The other night her hands sweeping over his shoulders aroused him to such a degree that he simply had to have her, right there on the floor. Now her fingers circling through the short hairs on his neck had something of the opposite effect, relaxing him until he felt like he was melting into the mattress. She swept her fingers through his hair, digging the nails in ever so slightly as they slid over his scalp. His muscles loosened; he felt himself sinking into the safety of her arms. She often had that effect on him – a comfort that was never motherly nor platonic. It was the comfort of knowing that she was there and that she would hold him, touch him, simply and purely because she loved him. No other woman ever touched him like that. The fingers stroking his head – carefully avoiding the bump beneath his hair – were their own kind of narcotic. He sighed audibly and felt her laugh. 

“It occurs to me that bad things only ever happen when we’re apart,” he muttered. 

“I suppose we’ll just have to remain together, then.” 

He raised his head. In the eyes that looked into his, he saw the depth of love he suspected had been there longer than he knew. What other tender moments might he have missed, because he was not more demonstrative, more willing to show how much he loved her? He’d wasted time before, pretending he did not need anyone. He needed her, and he always had. He did not intend to waste time again. 

He kissed her. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to make love that night, but kissing her … there was no greater thrill in the world than kissing Emma Peel. At least he’d not found it, and since he met her he stopped looking. He took his time, savoring her lips, her taste. The soft mouth against his, the smooth skin of her cheek and jaw beneath his hand, the indescribable pleasure when her lips parted for him, the gentle moan of longing in her throat – all thrilling, all reminding him that she belonged to him and that he, for far longer than he cared to admit, belonged to her. 

They slid down in the bed together, still fully clothed, neither caring to rise and change into pajamas. Steed rested his head against hers and closed his eyes. They were both where they belonged.

“My darling Steed,” she whispered. 

It was the last thing he heard before dropping off to sleep, with her hands still stroking his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

“That...was very naughty.”

Steed’s chest shook as he laughed. “I didn’t hear you objecting. Rather the opposite, in fact.”

Emma could not argue with him there. She stretched her arms and craned around to look at the clock. 

“Oh. I have to go to work.”

“Mmph.” 

Steed’s face was buried in her hair again. His lips began exploring her neck while his hands worked their way downwards.

“Steed…”

“Quiet. This requires concentration.”

“As delightful as this is … Steed! Stop! I have to go to work.”

She pushed him away as best she could. He groaned and rolled over, relinquishing his hold. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been kicked out of bed before.”

“You may stay in bed as long as you like.” 

“Come back here, vexatious woman.”

She dodged his hands and stood up. He was certainly energetic for a man who had been knocked out the night before. Under any other circumstances she would have happily remained in bed for another few hours, but if she did not start for the flower shop soon she would be late for her first day of work. 

Steed was not helping matters. He looked very inviting, lying there covered only by the sheet and watching her every move with warm grey eyes. 

“Did I ever tell you …” he began in that deep, insinuating tone.

“Don’t.” She raised a finger and smiled at him. “Tell me tonight.”

He sat up. “Cruelest of women! Here I am, about to unburden my soul to you, and you tell me to wait!”

“From where I stand, it is not your soul which needs unburdening.”

“You can help with that too, you know.” 

“You wanted me to take this job. You’ll just have to wait.”

"You are put on this earth to madden me!" he shouted after her as she vanished into the bathroom.

She half expected him to attempt to join her in the shower, which she was certain she would be powerless to resist. Their physical relationship, always of the most satisfying nature, had become positively uninhibited since her return. Not that she was complaining. Few women had as little cause for complaint as she did. 

But she still detected in him a certain amount of fear, or desperation. He needed reassurance that she was not suddenly going to leave him again, which translated into their love-making, among other things. He never wanted to talk about Peter, about those six months apart, about what she had done or what he felt. She feared he was trying to bury the whole matter and pretend it never happened. He said he forgave her, but there were times when she wondered if he wasn't still a little bitter. 

The door opened and closed. A moment later and the whirr of Steed’s razor filled the bathroom. Emma pushed down her slight disappointment at his acceptance of her request to be allowed to go to work. 

By the time she was out of the shower, Steed had finished his shave and was rummaging around in the cabinet. 

“I need a larger bathroom,” he said over his shoulder. “Have you or have you not pilfered the toothpaste?”

“I have not.” She located the tube almost blindly and handed it to him. “Honestly, Steed.”

He made a petulant face. “It goes on the left side of the cabinet.”

“Yes, dear.” 

She kissed his cheek and rested her chin on his shoulder. He looked very cute in his dressing gown with his hair mussed and his face freshly shaven. He did not look like a bitter man. He looked like a very happy one. 

“I do love you, Steed,” she said. 

“That may be, but the toothpaste still goes on the left side.”

 

The work at Florence Flo’s was not difficult, but Emma was kept on her feet all day – cutting, trimming, arranging according to Perriwinkle’s rather artistic instructions. The entire morning Perriwinkle kept up an ongoing monologue concerning families of flowers, genuses of flowers, the cultivation of flowers, the cutting of flowers, the history of flower arrangement, the art of flower arrangement, and the perpetual decline of the art of flower arrangement. She learned more about flowers in one day than she ever wanted to know. She hoped that from now on Steed would stick to sending her chocolates.

She had little respite until after the lunchtime rush – apparently a good many gentlemen wanted to buy or order their flowers for the evening during their lunch breaks. Perriwinkle having departed to the backrooms to execute some of the commissions, Emma was left alone at the front. 

She immediately took the opportunity to examine the order books kept under the cash register. The results were not encouraging. Ten orders for narcissus had been placed in the past fortnight, roughly corresponding to the dates of death of the four industrialists. She ran her finger along the columns, searching for a repetition of a name, or of initials, anything to link …

A shadow fell across the book. Emma raised her eyes and found herself looking up into the face of her blond acquaintance from the night before. She set her hands over the open book and smiled her best smile. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

He was a cool customer, for all that. He did not even flinch, though there was no doubt he recognized her. 

“I’ve come for an order,” he said. 

Oxbridge accent. He was not wearing his white egg blazer that day, but a dark blue suit and Etonian tie. His left wrist was encased in a cast. 

“Name?”

“Todd.” There was challenge in his blue eyes. 

“Mr. Todd!” Mr. Perriwinkle appeared from the backroom, bearing beneath his arm a white flower box. “On time as usual, Mr. Todd! Mrs. Peel, have you met Mr. Todd?”

“I believe we may have run into each other last night,” Emma met his eyes with equal challenge. 

“Oh, indeed? Your flowers, Mr. Todd!”

“Thank you, Mr. Perriwinkle. Mrs. Peel.” 

Todd inclined his head and departed without looking back. 

“Charming young man,” sighed Perriwinkle. 

“Quite. He often orders from you?”

“His organization does, every few weeks, but he usually collects them. A standing order for a dozen white and yellow narcissus.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “What organization, Mr. Perriwinkle?”

“Oh, I don’t quite remember. I believe I have a card here somewhere.” He began fumbling beneath the cash register in the piles of collected cards. “Strange name, I’ll know it when I see it. Ah! Here! I said it was strange, didn’t I?”

Emma took the gilt-edged card and held it up. “Very strange indeed.” 

The lettering was in bold black letters on the little white card: NEMESIS.

 

Steed’s meeting with Sir George Fortescue was not going the way he hoped or planned. Their first meeting was cordial; Sir George had been willing to help in any way he could. Now the baronet appeared to take an entirely different attitude. He was not impolite, but his previous friendly politeness now masked a cold dislike of Steed’s very presence. Never mind. Steed could be entirely oblivious when he chose. 

“You’re a hunter.”

Steed gestured to the trophies on the walls in Sir George’s study. 

“At times. Do you hunt, Mr. Steed?”

“At times.” He fixed Sir George with a smile. “The most dangerous game.”

Sir George was at a loss for a moment, then laughed nervously. “Yes. Indeed.”

Having offered Steed a drink – and pouring a large one for himself – Sir George sat down behind his desk. The man moved very deliberately. He did everything deliberately. He was a politician in mid-career and had the politician’s cagey complacency. Look for every angle, don’t miss a point, don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes. He would not answer any question without considering it, balancing it and possibly submitting it for committee approval. So Steed would not ask questions. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Steed? Is there anything else you need to know?”

“Not really, Sir George. This is more of a friendly visit.” 

Steed sat in an armchair opposite the desk, balancing his glass in one hand. He maintained the knowing smiling on his face.

“We’re a bit concerned at the Ministry, you see. This number of industrialists dying off so suddenly and violently. We want to be certain that anyone with connections to them has been apprised of the situation and takes the necessary precautions.”

Sir George’s eyebrows went up. “You mean to say that I might be in some danger?”

“Not at all, Sir George. We just want everyone to be careful. Capital whisky, by the way – Highland Park?”

“Yes. Mr. Steed, what do you mean ‘be careful?’ How am I to … to be careful?”

“Don’t go swimming.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The dead men all had water in their lungs.”

“Really, Mr. Steed, I barely knew these men, but I don't think this is a time for jokes.”

“Neither do I." Steed set his glass down on the glazed oak side-table. "But they were contributors of yours. That’s one point of connection. We’re only trying to be thorough, Sir George.”

He let the statement hang in the air. Sir George shifted in his seat. His face, already a bit pallid, seemed to be going a shade lighter. Steed began to suspect that it was more than his friendly warning that made Sir George nervous. 

“You said one point of connection,” said the baronet quietly.

Steed’s face, he hoped, was a picture of innocence. “Did I?”

“Yes. Is there … another point?”

“Just that they’re industrialists, very high on the social and economic scale. I’m certain that’s all I meant.” 

He finished the whisky in one gulp and rose. “Well, Sir George, that’s all I came here to say. Thank you for the excellent drink.”

Sir George showed Steed out himself, following at a distance with his chin sunk upon his breast. Steed took his time putting on his gloves, collecting his bowler and brolly. Time enough to casually cast an eye over the calling cards on the salver in the front hall. An excellent old custom, calling cards. Steed approved. 

“Now, that’s an interesting herald,” said Steed, taking up one of the cards. “A white egg. Interesting name for an organization too. Rather sinister, isn’t it? ”

He cast a glance at Sir George. The baronet was definitely two shades paler than before. 

“Yes, they were … they are a charitable organization. They were collecting … earlier.”

“Of course. A charitable organization called NEMESIS. No doubt widows and orphans?”

“Fa…famine relief.”

“Naturally.” Steed set the card down on the salver. It was time to put his one and only question. “Sir George, did you happen to meet with Michael Waites-Haugh, perhaps in the week or so before he died?”

Steed hoped that that Sir George never played cards. He possessed the worst possible poker face of any politician Steed had ever met. Sweat even formed on his brow. 

“No, Mr. Steed,” he said in a quavering voice. “I never met with Mr. Waites-Haugh.”

Steed smiled. “I thought you hadn’t. Good day, Sir George. Do take my advice.” 

He tapped his bowler on his head and walked out into the sunlight.

Emma badly wanted to get home She’d tried phoning Steed, but of course he was out at Sir George’s country estate. He wouldn’t be back in the city until late. 

It was beginning, slowly, to make sense. If they could get on to NEMESIS through the Ministry, learn what it was and what it meant - she already had an idea or two about that - they would know who had killed those men and why. Of course, she still had to acquit Perriwinkle, who she was convinced really was only interested in flowers.

All things considered, she enjoyed working with the strange little man. He was knowledgable in his own field, but also possessed of a romantic streak. He’d asked her once more about Steed and she, surprising herself, told him something of their history. How they had met, how they had fallen in love, what a terrible mistake she’d almost made. He was easily to talk to, was Arthur Perriwinkle. The rest of the day passed almost before she knew it. 

Emma was in the backroom, sweeping up the cuttings of the day and stuffing them into rubbish bins, when she heard the muted noise of a scuffle coming from the front. She rushed out, more than prepared to face Todd and his accomplice. At first all she saw was the silent, closed shop, lit by an overhead bulb, the blinds already pulled down against the outside light. Then she saw him, lying against the glass counter.

Perriwinkle had been expertly garrotted. The wire was still around his throat. She touched his pulse, but she did not really need to. His eyes were wide open and unseeing. The kind little man was dead. . 

Emma let the sadness possess her for a moment. It was a horrible, meaningless waste. He did not deserve this. He had told her nothing she would not have discovered on her own. He just loved flowers.

She rose to her feet, carefully brushing her hand against Perriwinkle’s forehead in whatever gesture of good-bye she could make. But when she stepped back, she stepped back into the hard and unmistakable end of a gun barrel pressed into her back. 

“Don’t move, Mrs. Peel," said an unnaturally soft voice. "I really would hate to shoot you.”


	6. Chapter 6

The Ministry file on NEMESIS was not terribly thick. It was even a bit of shock that it existed, as NEMESIS did not appear to be on any sort of watch list. Steed read it with a brandy in one hand, seated in the reading room of one of the many Ministry clubs scattered throughout London. This one was conveniently a few blocks distant from Perriwinkle’s flower shop. A good place to wile away the hours before he met Emma. He crossed one leg over the other and picked an imaginary piece of lint from the knee. He could not concentrate on the dry prose, his mind keen to wander to other, more pleasurable considerations. Like the hollandaise sauce he was determined to obtain that evening. Or Emma’s breathless love-making that morning. 

Steed cleared his throat, as though he’d just aired his thoughts in public, and tried to return to the file. NEMESIS was not an acronym – named for the Greek goddess of retribution, it was, ostensibly, a charity organization. It encouraged, said the file, ‘humility, honesty, simplicity and obedience’. The organization’s subscribers were primarily eccentric millionaires and politicians, eager to give heartily and wholly to anyone who promised them protection hereafter - whatever that meant. The file did not explain quite what all this had to do with a Greek goddess who herself did not appear to be terribly charitable, but then Steed was not as up on his classical reading as he should have been. Perhaps Emma would understand it better. She understood a great many things, that woman. 

Once more, Steed’s mind began to wander. He looked across the room, at the agents young and old. Mostly men. Steed shifted in his chair. He was not yet old for a field agent, but ever since the crisis of Emma leaving him he had begun to feel older. Tara’s wide-eyed adoration of him had been flattering but fruitless. It only drove home that the feminine attention he’d enjoyed as a younger man – and returned with equal fervor – was something he no longer wanted. He appreciated women and always would, but for years now there had only been one he had any real interest in. That had nothing to do with age and he knew it.

Steed leaned back in his chair. He’d always had a distant fantasy of a home in the country, several acres, a stud farm, a manor house. Plenty of horses, plenty of time. Never before did he add to that a notion of a wife, or of children. But during the past year, before the crisis, he’d started to wonder if that was not something he wanted. He allowed himself, distantly, dreamily, to imagine Emma with him, in something like a domestic existence. Now his mind drifted back to that again. He did not intend to settle down in the traditional sense – and Emma was anything but a traditional woman - but the time would come when he’d have to stop the endless pursuit of danger that was his life. He wouldn’t be able to survive, and he did not intend to end his life in the field. And when that time came, when he was forced to give over the only life he knew, he wanted her to be there. He wanted his children to be hers. 

Steed was shaken from his revery by a distant rumble, as of approaching thunder. Then there was commotion outside the reading room. Several of the men sat up. The word ‘explosion’ reached his ears. He was out of his chair. The phrase ‘flower shop’ sent him out the door at a run. 

He did not have to look to see the billowing smoke. As soon he was on the pavement, he could smell it. A fire engine flew by, howling. He ran the two blocks down the street faster than much younger men. 

Florence Flo’s was in flames – the explosion gutted the entire front part of the store. Debris spilled out onto the pavement, thick smoke spilled from blasted door. There was blood on the curb. An ambulance whirred by and stopped. 

Steed seized one of the firefighters coming from the building.

“Was there anyone inside?” he shouted, or thought he did, but the man just stared at him. 

He felt panic rise as he stared at the shambles of the shop. Panic first, then anger. Raging anger. He staggered forward, towards the door, then felt himself seized from behind, pulled back. He was conscious of fighting, of voices in his ears over the pounding blood, of multiple arms pulling him back, away from the flames. Away from her. 

Steed would likely have managed to throw them all off and charge into the burning building – and just as likely have ended his own life right there – had not a familiar voice penetrated the pounding of his head and the collected noises of the street without. 

“Steed!”

He stopped struggling. A figure emerged, not from the flames or the smoke, but from a place by one of the ambulances. The firemen who held him let him go and he stood wavering on the pavement, staring at her, not quite certain. 

“Steed,” she said. Emma was alive. Not burnt to death. That much managed to penetrate his mind.

Steed did not believe in airing one’s private affairs in public. A relationship was between two people and not the world at large. He never cared to discuss his love affairs, not even with his closest friends.

So it surprised him as much as it likely surprised Emma when he embraced her in full sight of three London firemen, two police officers and an ambulance driver.

“Steed,” she whispered. “They’re staring.”

She did not push him away, however, but instead hugged him tighter, her chin resting on his shoulder. He felt her breath against his neck. He smelled the smoke rising from her clothes. She was alive. 

He did not quite recover from the shock until they had walked a distance from the fire and were able to sit down on the stairs of some club or hotel. Steed did not really note or care where they were. 

“Here I thought working in a flower shop would be the safe assignment,” he muttered. 

“Indeed.” Emma looked down the road at the licking flames. “Perriwinkle’s dead.”

“It’s a miracle you’re not.”

“Not quite miraculous. He didn’t have much of a chance. Todd garotted him.”

Turned as she was towards the flames, he could not see her face in full. A muscle in her jaw spasmed slightly. Then she looked at him. 

“But he left a message.” 

Where she managed to hide pockets in her catsuits he’d never quite determined – although he had mounted one or two extensive investigations – but she produced from one a crumpled piece of notebook paper. It had only three words, written in a florid hand, as though Perriwinkle had been taking notes. 

“Helen of Troy?” Steed read and turned the paper over for some other message on the back. 

Emma leaned back on the stairs, extending her long legs out before her.

“ ‘Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’ The most beautiful woman in the world – caused the Trojan War.”

“I believe Paris had something to do with it.”

“In at least one iteration of the story, Steed, Helen of Troy is the daughter of Zeus and Nemesis, hatched from a swan’s egg. Nemesis." Her eyes met his. "Now tell me what you know about that name.”

“Ah.” Steed leaned back on the stairs with her. “Now that is interesting.”

Several hours, a change of clothes, and an excellent dinner later – of which Steed partook very little and Emma quite a lot – and they were more or less on the same page. 

“Our investigations have been running along parallel lines,” said Steed, swirling his brandy. 

“So it appears. Poor Perriwinkle. He didn’t know what the name NEMESIS would do.”

“You liked him.”

“He was a sweet little man who loved flowers.” Emma set her empty wine glass on the table. “I would very much like to see his murderers brought to justice.”

“To whit: the subscription lists of NEMESIS.”

He handed her the sheet across the table and watched as she ran her eyes down the list of names. A woman of intense emotions was Emma Peel, but she rarely showed it. Over the years, and as the result of a natural sympathy between them, he learned to read her. She was angry a little shaken – he could see it in her eyes and in the set form of her jaw, the very vague tremble in her fingers. 

“John Bettany,” she said, looking up from the list. 

Steed nodded. “Also Neville St. John and James Kent. And our good friend Sir George Fortescue, who knows nothing about the matter, never did, never will.”

“Hmm. Is it too bold to guess that Michael Waites-Haugh is not on the list?”

“He is not. And therein we come back, once more, to Haugh and Haugh Amalgamated.”

“You missed a Haugh.” Emma tossed the list on the table. “So the murdered men but one, and our venerable baronet, were all members of NEMESIS. Todd, who killed Perriwinkle and made a very bad job at killing me, wore a blazer with a white egg, the symbol of NEMESIS. You found a NEMESIS card at Sir George’s, and NEMESIS ordered the narcissus we suspect were found on the dead men. Narcissus was a god known for his vanity, Nemesis was his punisher. Not so far a stretch to assume that that’s the parallel this organization intends to draw. The question is: what did these men do to anger NEMESIS?”

“And why is a charity organization murdering wealthy industrialists?"

He looked at her hand, picking at the table cloth. She had yet to tell him how she escaped the explosion. 

“What next, Steed?”

She knew the answer as well as he did. 

Steed sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. 

“I am at an impasse,” he muttered. 

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “I’m perfectly all right, Steed, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I’m glad. I’m still taking a little time to recover.”

She smiled at him. “Dear Steed. Did you really think I’d do something so cruel as die on you?”

“The thought had briefly entered my mind, hence my rather indecorous display in front of those firemen.”

“It was very sweet.”

“Another moment and I’d have been engulfed in flames.”

She reached her hand across the table. “Steed, would you look at me?”

He raised her eyes to hers. Disarmingly tender, those eyes. When she spoke, her voice was low enough so as not to be heard by others in the dining room, and serious. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Looking into her warm dark eyes, and seeing all the love and desire he possessed reflected there – seeing also, what kind of eyes their children must have – Steed believed her. She'd never lied to him.

He kissed the back of her hand, felt the tendons flex and the tiny ripple that crossed the skin as his mouth touched it. Then he released her and raised his hand for the bill.

“Tell me, my dear, could you stand a spot of breaking and entering tonight?”

He was pleased at the smile that overspread her face. 

“Mr. Steed, I thought you’d never ask.”


	7. Chapter 7

The building that housed the business offices of Haugh, Haugh and Haugh stood alone in a cul de sac, protected only by simple locks and no alarm system. Of course there was no reason for anyone to break in – unless you particularly desired a look into business accounts. Which Steed and Emma did. 

The offices were on the third floor, down a long dark corridor. Steed had been there once before, cooling his heels for several hours earlier that day. One of Waites-Haugh’s many junior secretaries informed him that she could not possibly open the accounts now, that it was all in disarray following their CEO’s death, that she wanted to help the Ministry but she couldn't possibly, etc. etc. Steed suspected that it was a dodge, but he could not very well force his way past the lovely blonde. Chivalry did not permit. 

He could break into the offices. The problem was, he did not know what he was looking for. A connection, perhaps – the names of the three other dead men among Waites-Haugh's papers, the information contained in St. John’s appointment book that NEMESIS deemed necessary to kill Dr. Randall for. Whatever it was, it was something big enough that thus far six people had to die. 

Steed’s business sense, however, did not extend much further than his own bank account. His knowledge of the inner workings of major corporations was limited to an outsider’s perspective. Luckily he had Emma. 

Once inside the main offices, they emptied out most of the filing cabinets and began to go through the files one by one. It was dull going, nothing but columns of numbers, contracts, account books, memos. Steed thought he was going cross-eyed with all the tiny print he’d been forced to read, when Emma uttered an exclamation and stood up from the desk chair. 

“Steed, look at this.” She handed over a manila folder. 

“Looks like another set of accounts.”

“Yes, but the reference at the top is to a file that doesn’t exist.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless it’s been misfiled, or … hey!”

She crossed the room to the painting – London Bridge at dusk – that hung over a line of cabinets. She ran her fingers along the edge - delicate touch, those long lovely hands - until she found the catch.

“When in doubt …” The painting swung easily on hinges to reveal the wall safe. “Look for a secret compartment.”

Emma grinned. Steed did the honors of the combination lock, and soon they had the contents of the safe out on the desk. There, amid a stack of files and private books, was the missing file. Emma spread the pages out on the desk.

“It makes sense. Look at this. These figures are profit projections for a merger. A very big merger between four companies. And what companies do you think those are?”

He leaned over her shoulder. “So that’s what they were planning.”

“Bring together four of the biggest companies in the business: mechanics, electronics, shipping and natural resources. The sheer size would run most competitors out of business.” She tapped the edge of the file on her chin. “The current champion in that area is Blackwater Ltd. They have all the production and distribution capabilities under one roof. But this sort of a merger would ruin them – they wouldn’t be able to keep up. Neither would Knight Industries for that matter.”

Steed nodded. “Waites-Haugh came up with the idea I’ll wager.”

“Do you think they were killed for this?”

“A merger that could ruin whole industries? I don’t doubt it, though I’m not clear on why NEMESIS would want to involve itself in all this.”

“Wealthy entrepreneurs, politicians – there’s good chance someone on the board of NEMESIS has connections to a rival company.” 

“And would not be perturbed to have any of these fellows out of the way. Still, it’s quite a round job for a charity organization. Photograph the files, I’ll get the rest put away.”

Emma did not move. Her fair brow was creased as she stared at the file. 

"Anything else?" Steed asked.

"I was trying to remember..." She shook her head. "If I think of it, I'll let you know."

She took out her little camera and began snapping pictures of the individual pages. Steed carefully rearranged the files in the cabinets. Her voice made him turn. 

“Steed, did you meet Waites-Haugh’s secretary?”

“One of them. Why?”

“Do you remember her name?”

“No.” 

She held the sheet out to him, finger indicating the bottom part of a memo, signed by Waites-Haugh’s senior secretary. Steed’s eyebrows shot up as he read the name. 

“Helena Todd.”

***

The Bentley whipped easily around the corners and Emma had to hold her hair back to keep it out of her face. Off into the thick of it, to an isolated country house to interview Helena Todd, Michael Waites-Haugh’s secretary and very probably the missing link between Haugh and NEMESIS. What would they find at the house? A crew of desperate men, killers with flowers? A mastermind at the head of it all, committing crimes for his own nefarious purposes? She could not quite hope for a mad scientist – this particular case did not smack of devilish devices – but she’d been surprised before. She felt good – impossibly good, given the circumstances. But it was the danger she loved, excitement, thrills, escapes. Steed. 

She hadn’t known how lucky she was in having him until she lost him. It wasn’t just the fun of being together, but of working with someone who encouraged her autonomy. Their occasional sparring was more of a friendly competition. He forced her to be better, faster, smarter; to know her story, to best him, to wrestle him to the ground even. Even very early in their relationship, he made a point to challenge her, but never did she sense he was threatened by her. He seemed to love every minute as much as she did. 

Peter never challenged her. Before his disappearance, he’d been amused at her interest in martial arts, a little trepidatious when she wanted to take up fencing. He’d positively despised the concept of her firing a gun. And when he returned, he expected all those things to once more take a back seat to their marriage, his ambitions and his desires. He was a hero. What was she? She was his wife. 

The marriage was bound to collapse, even if she hadn’t made the wonderful error of falling in love with her partner. Steed’s existence only precipitated things. Peter was still mired in a world of male adventure and female domesticity – he imagined that she was the same slightly inexperienced girl he’d married years before. He’d never begrudged her work at Knight Industries, or her scientific endeavors, because they did not interfere with his interests. The moment she became an agent, however amateur, she’d crossed into his territory. She wondered if he despised her for it.

She looked at Steed. A man who had never expected her to behave in a certain way; who assumed she would think for herself, who never presumed to think for her. Who loved her not for what he expected her to be, but for what she was. Who could be rough with her, and inexpressibly tender at the same time. They’d played games their entire relationship – romantic games, erotic ones, healthy sporting competitions that were a fundamental part of them both. But beneath it all was the mutual respect and admiration that she should have had with Peter and never really did. 

It was dreadful to admit, and it would probably continue to follow her for years, but Emma’s sorrow at losing Peter was nothing to her sorrow at regaining him. 

“The question,” said Steed. “Is whether you’d prefer to take the interview or the … creeping about?”

Emma started out of her contemplation and looked at him. “Say that again?”

“Interview or breaking and entering?”

She shook her head. “If Todd’s there, it will be a precious short interview. Besides, I have special training to move without noise.”

He glanced at her. “Like a cat in carpet slippers?”

“Something like that. I’ll take a look ‘round the grounds. All we need is a link between Helena Todd and NEMESIS.”

“Proof of murder would help.” Steed tapped his hands on the wheel. 

Emma laid one hand on Steed’s leg. He smiled, raised the hand to his lips and restored it to its place. 

“Try not to get blown up again, eh?” he said. 

“I’ll do my best. And don’t you get tied to anything.”

"When have I ever?”

***

Steed was shown into the spacious sitting room of the massive manor house in which Helena Todd, Michael Waites-Haugh’s senior secretary, lived. A very high class mansion for a secretary, however senior. The butler looked at Steed as though he was going to lift the silver. Steed surveyed his surroundings – very high class, very nouveau riche, but just a little shabby. The fixtures had not been replaced; the finish on the tables was peeling. The entire room had the air of wealth under fire. The painting over the fireplace depicted a handsome elderly man with his hand on the head of a very ugly dog. Over the opposite wall was an equally unattractive art print, a copy of some French Baroque masterpiece depicting a young woman gazing fondly at a young man in some wooded glade, an ugly cherubic cupid between them. Steed curled his nose. 

“Mr. Steed?”

Steed was not quite certain what he expected senior secretary Helena Todd to be, but certainly not like this: a tall, elegant woman in her late-fifties, as beautiful now as she must have been twenty years before. She met him with one hand extended, her gaze never wavering as crystal blue eyes met his. 

“Mrs. Todd.” Steed bowed over her hand. 

Helena Todd nodded her head with a crisp smile. “Charming. So few true gentlemen left in the world today.”

“Or true ladies.”

She gestured him into a chair and he sat, never taking his eyes from her. Beautiful but imperious – there was cold, rather calculated edge to her. He had trouble imagining this woman playing second fiddle to anyone. 

“I’m afraid that John was rather vague about what you wanted, Mr. Steed. You are collecting for charity?”

“I am.”

“And what charity do you collect for?”

“NEMESIS.”

Steed was not surprised that her face showed no reaction to the word. But her hand, as she reached for the cigarette box on the coffee table, trembled just a little. 

“I was not aware they collected at this time of year.”

“Just from one or two select donors.” Steed took the proffered cigarette and rolled it between his fingers.

“You are a member of NEMESIS?”

“I have that honor.” 

“And how do you have my name, Mr. Steed?”

She leaned forward as he struck a light for her. The flame lit her face for a moment. He could see her nervousness in those crystal eyes. Steed sat back and put the flame to his own cigarette.

“Your late employer, Mr. Waites-Haugh, expressed interest in our little organization. And I believe your son has been listed among our subscribers in the past.”

Whatever little tremor of fear or nervousness he might have detected in her now dissipated. She looked at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“Mr. Waites-Haugh had little time for charity, Mr. Steed. As for Martin … we are not on speaking terms.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Martin felt that my going to work following my husband’s death was ill in keeping with what he called my ‘place in society.’ He did not appreciate that even the wife of a once rich man does not stay rich indefinitely.” 

She gestured to the painting over the fireplace. 

“My husband was a good man, Mr. Steed, but not a circumspect one. He was successful in business, he built this house, he sent Martin to a good school. He flew too high – his wings melted and he fell. You might say the fall killed him.”

She paused, staring up at the painting. “After his death, I found it necessary to return to work. I was a secretary once, and became a secretary again. I saw no shame in it. Martin did.”

She turned back to him. “I tell you this because you are a gentleman, Mr. Steed, and a gentleman can understand pride. Also because it is easier to explain why I cannot offer your organization much in the way of charity. Despite this house, I fear I am not terribly well off.”

Steed inclined his head. “I understand, Mrs. Todd.”

“However,” she said, rising. “I have always believed in doing what one could. Would you accept a small contribution?”

“Every little bit helps.”

“Then do wait here. And help yourself to the brandy. It was Mr. Todd’s favorite.”

She glided out of the room, closing the door behind her. Steed let out a breath and went to pour himself a brandy from the sideboard. He felt like he was in a touch of a quandary. By introducing himself as a member of NEMESIS, he effectively sacrificed his right to ask about the merger. Helena Todd did not seem like the sort of woman to organize the ritual murder of four men. What Steed had been convinced of the night before now seemed outlandish and absurd. Why should she want to kill Waites-Haugh? As senior secretary, she must hold stock and would therefore have stood to profit from the merger. 

He swirled the brandy and watched as it sparkled and undulated beneath the light. His hunches were not usually incorrect, though – and she had reacted to the name NEMESIS. Perhaps she knew of her son’s involvement. Perhaps Steed had taken the wrong tack with her. Perhaps he should lay his cards on the table. Perhaps…

“Mr. Steed?”

He turned from the sideboard to face Mrs. Todd and a blond-haired, blue-eyed, rather ascetic young man with a cast around one wrist, a cut above his brow, and a definite air of having been recently singed. He held a large repeating revolver in one hand, the barrel directed – most unfriendly – at Steed’s abdomen. Steed sighed and sipped his brandy. His hunches, as he said, were seldom wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma tossed one leg over the edge of the second-floor balcony rail and rolled herself, rather clumsily, to the other side. Six months and she was already a bit out of shape. Of course, she considered, she would volunteer for the running, jumping, climbing assignment, while Steed sat in a plush armchair one floor down, undoubtedly sipping brandy and drawling on in his ‘man about town’ voice. She only hoped he did not find himself on the wrong end of a gun.

The balcony’s unlocked double doors opened into a large bedroom. It was fitted out to be more utilitarian than comfortable. Empty ‘Florence Flo’s’ flower boxes littered one corner of the room; the bed was a poorly made camp cot. She looked around. The house was opulent from without, but if all the rooms were like this one it was nothing but a façade. 

Voices in the corridor made her pause. She slipped behind the bedroom door. It opened and a young man – the smaller, darker one that she recognized from the other night – came into the room, bearing another set of cardboard flower boxes in his arms. She slammed the door and threw one arm around his neck.

No stamina, these young men. He dropped the boxes. They exploded in a shower of petals and stems, narcissus spilling across the floor. Emma knocked him down with a karate chop to the neck, then she was on him. She pinned his arm behind his back. 

“Now,” she said. “We’re going to talk about NEMESIS.”

He made a rather offensive comment about her gender. She twisted his arm. 

“I can break it, you know.”

“No!”

“Who’s the head of NEMESIS?”

“Don’t know!” he cried as she wrenched his wrist.

“Why did you kill those men?”

“Orders!”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know!”

“This is getting repetitive. I’m not certain you want to keep your arm.” She increased the pressure, felt the bone beginning to bend.

“Mrs. Todd!” His voice came out sharpened by pain. “Mrs. Todd told us that they needed to be brought down. It's Mrs. Todd!”

“What do you mean by ‘brought down’?”

“Bring down those that … fly too high. Too successful.” He gasped for air. She was really was hurting him. 

“You mean you killed them for being too successful?”

“Against the … rules!”

"What rules?"

"NEMESIS!"

Determining that there was nothing more to be got out of him, Emma knocked the fellow out cleanly and rose, smoothing back her hair. 

She stepped out onto the landing. Muffled voices rose from the rooms below. She recognized Steed amid two others – a woman and a man – but could not quite make out what they were saying. Nemesis, Narcissus, Helen of Troy … Why did masterminds always insist on making hash of the classics? 

Emma heard the front door open and the clipped tread of wingtips on the tiled floor. She slid along the bannister until she could peer over into the hall beneath. A well-dressed man, moving with rapidity towards the sitting room doors. She could not see his features, but she could guess. She could also guess that, despite her admonitions, Steed was in trouble. 

The door opened and she could hear the woman’s voice – Mrs. Todd. 

“I don’t think you appreciate the situation, Mr. Steed. We’re going to kill you.”

“And stain this lovely Persian?” came the laconic, amused response. 

There was a pause and then the well-dressed man below spoke. 

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Steed.”

“Sir George! I was wondering when you’d arrive. Now the whole family’s together, eh?”

“All but one. Where is Mrs. Peel?”

*** 

“Mrs. Peel?” Steed tapped his jaw. “Why should Mrs. Peel be anywhere? I believe little Martin there made short work of her last night.”

“She survived,” growled the blond. “That woman’s indestructible.”

Steed smiled. “Yes, she is, isn’t she? But I assure you, Mrs. Peel is nowhere near this house. I’m rather disappointed in you, Sir George. A baronet involved in such a diabolical plot.”

Sir George glanced at Mrs. Todd. “You said you’d take care of them.”

“They seem to have escaped our nets,” sighed the lady.

“You said…”

“I’m aware of what I said, George!”

Steed snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. You hold a controlling interest in Blackwater, don’t you? That would make sense of it. You’re the one that set them onto us.”

“I really didn’t want you to be involved, Steed, but when the Ministry insisted on investigating…”

Steed shook his head sadly. “Mrs. Todd here told you about the merger and between you you arranged for little Martin here and his friend to start the campaign of terror. Narcissus and drowning and all the rest – symbolic and very effective.”

Mrs. Todd smiled. “You’re a good guesser, Mr. Steed.”

“I’m excellent at pub quizzes. But I’d like to know why you’d ruin yourself, Mrs. Todd? You must hold company stock.”

“You mistakenly assume that this was all about money. It is not. It is the just vengeance of the gods.”

Steed repressed the urge to yawn. “Vengeance? For what? What did those men ever do to you?”

“Businessmen ruined my husband. They reduced this beautiful house to the state it’s now in. Only Sir George was there to buoy us up. Those who find too much favor in this life must be taken down. Meant to understand humility. That is the purpose of Nemesis, the goddess of retribution. Those men contribute to the charity to buy their way out of judgment. They cannot.”

She raised her head. She looked very grand, holding forth as though before an assembly. 

Steed cocked his head. He thought he heard the soft tread of rubber soles on the tiles of the hall. 

"And you take it upon yourself to exact that retribution, eh?"he said.

Mrs. Todd smiled. “Waites-Haugh and those others were planning to ruin Sir George, though they did not know it. They were flying too high, Mr. Steed. They had to be punished for their hubris.”

“And Perriwinkle? Randall? They were innocent.”

“They were dangerous to NEMESIS. To our mission.”

Sir George nodded sagely. “We are shifting the focus of NEMESIS. At first it was about charity, maintaining a simple lifestyle despite one’s wealth. Now it will be about true retribution. We receive contributions from hundreds of wealthy men, trying to buy peace of mind. But they gain no humility. They need to learn what it means to cross NEMESIS.”

Steed inclined his head in admiration. “Control through terror – the project of every totalitarian organization since the beginning of time. Of course you stand to make a great deal of money from it.”

He saw the door open, just slightly. A shadow on the other side.

Helena Todd glared at him. “I don't expect you to understand, Mr. Steed. From what Sir George has told me it seems that the gods have been unusually kind to you – you’re successful in your trade, fairly wealthy.”

"Merely a public servant.”

“You also possess a beautiful, brilliant woman.”

Steed raised a finger. “There are one or two things wrong with that statement, but I shall let them pass. She wouldn’t, but I will.”

The door behind them opened a little further. Steed glanced at Martin Todd's gun. 

Mrs. Todd was enjoying the sound of her voice. “Nevertheless, I think you are far too lucky, and luck has a way of running out. We will find Mrs. Peel and we will deal with her as we deal with you.” 

She held out her hand and Martin gave her the gun. She leveled it at Steed. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Steed.”

It was then that the door slammed hard into Helena Todd’s back.

What happened next, happened all at once. 

The gun went off, the shot went wide, and Steed barreled forward headfirst into Sir George. There was a shout, a confusion of limbs, Steed bore the baronet to the floor. Sir George seized the gun where it had fallen. They grappled for it. Steed was bigger, stronger, more experienced. He knew it. Then a shooting pain in his neck. His head was wrenched back, strong fingers in his hair – Mrs. Todd. Steed found himself tussling with both Sir George and the lady of the house, having to repress his more chivalric instincts in favor of knocking an older woman out cold. He was vaguely aware of Emma wrestling with Martin Todd across the room. Then he was on the ground again, Sir George’s face above him, a hand grasping the gun. 

He heard a crack, a thump, a cry. He looked away. Was Emma all right? A gun shot rattled in his ear. He’d been shot. But there was no pain. Then the face above him took on a look of remarkable surprise. The weight on his chest lifted. Sir George fell away onto his side.

Steed struggled up, ready to take on the next comer, but there was none. The baronet’s eyes were wide open, the same look of nearly comical surprise on his face. Mrs. Todd lay a short distance, groaning. Emma was kneeling in the middle of Martin Todd’s back. Steed plucked the gun from Sir George’s fingers. Steed adjusted his tie.

“Pride goeth before the fall,” he muttered.

"You're mixing your belief systems, Steed," said Emma. 

***

Emma did not hear the alarm, but she did feel the shift of weight from the other side of the bed. She rolled over and tried to ignore the fact that her back was getting cold. Of course he had to get up – he had an early meeting at the Ministry to finish the NEMESIS debriefing. He’d offered to take her along, but she (politely) declined. She wanted some time alone in the apartment. But she had not realized he would get up quite so early as…

“Nine o’clock?” she muttered, raising her head just enough to see the clock. 

Steed came back into the room, combing his hair. “I believe the word you’re looking for is 'indolent', my dear.”

“If I wasn’t kept up until all hours…”

“I did not hear a single complaint.”

“Mmmm. No indeed. Don’t go, darling.”

He came across the room and leaned over her. 

“I’ll be back before you’ve even had breakfast. Be good.”

She looked up at him with half closed eyes. “Come back here now and I’ll be very very bad.”

“Mata Hari, you shall drag me from my sworn duty.” 

He bent down to kiss her. She captured his head with one hand and pulled him down into a far deeper kiss than he perhaps intended. His hands wound into her hair and he made a small noise in his throat. Then he was pulling away, shaking his head. 

“My mother warned me about women like you,” he said. 

“Hurry back, Steed, or I’ll find another dashing agent to corrupt.”

She heard him laughing as he shut the bedroom door. 

Emma remained in bed for another half hour. Then she got up, managed to make coffee and toast, and had everything prepared by the time Steed returned. She was curled up on the sofa with the morning paper - Baronet Killed In Hunting Accident - when he entered. He clasped a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. 

“If those are narcissus, I will leave you on the spot,” she said, tossing the paper aside. 

“We’re going to run out of flowers if this keeps up. No roses, no narcissus, and I believe there was a moritorium on tulips for awhile.”

He handed her the bouquet – very tastefully arranged, she noted – and the paper bag. 

“Some of those disgusting danishes you enjoy so much,” he said. “Is there coffee?”

“On the kitchen table.”

Emma bit into one of the danishes and savored the sugary tartness. 

“How was the meeting?”

“Dull as dishwater. We’re to be commended, by the way. Seems that half the business world was on the NEMESIS list. We have apparently saved the British economy.”

“Oh, good. I was worried.” 

Steed returned from the kitchen, stirring his coffee. “Mother was thrilled.”

“And you?”

“A job well done, although I can’t help but be sympathetic to their anger. That merger could have severely damaged an entire industry and put hundreds out of work. It’s just as well that it didn’t go through.”

“If only they hadn’t gone so far as to murder.”

“Indeed.”

He sat down beside her and stretched his legs. "A long, leisurely rest is in order. An uninterrupted meal, a bottle of champagne or three, candlelight, soft music, a soft woman..."

His eyes lit on the envelope on the table.

“What’s that?” he asked. 

Emma repressed a smile. “Hmm? Oh, that’s a gift. Open it.”

Steed opened the flap of the envelope and drew out a sheaf of papers with Ministry stamps. 

“You got me paperwork?”

She laughed. “Not quite, although your signature is required, as my immediate superior.”

He was looking over the pages, an unreadable expression on his face. He glanced at her. 

“You have yourself reinstated.”

“Mm. It was difficult without your authorization, but Lord Maxstead knows me.”

“Maxstead signed off on this? I saw him this morning.” 

She laid her hand on his arm. “I want you to know that I don’t intend to abandon Knight Industries, but you were quite right that I can run it just as well while working for the Ministry. I do intend to continue my scientific work …” She stopped. “Steed, I thought you’d be a bit happier than this.”

“Hm? Oh, I’m happy. Of course I am. I just wish you had let me know.”

“It was meant to be a surprise.”

“It is certainly that.” 

Steed rubbed the back of his neck. The corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment she almost did not credit it, but she believed that he was suppressing laughter. 

“I thought you didn’t want to be involved with the Ministry any more.”

“I changed my mind. After all we went through with this last ... Steed, are you laughing?”

He was. The bastard was laughing. He leaned back on the sofa, threw his head back and laughed. For a moment Emma wondered if he hadn’t completely gone round the bend.

“Steed!”

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear, it’s just that it seems for once we are working at cross-purposes.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a white envelope. “Here. Perhaps this will explain things.”

She opened the envelope.

"What is this?”

“What does it look like?”

“Rather like airplane tickets.”

“Mm. For Paris, three days time. I’ve booked us into the little place on the Ile St. Louis we stayed in for your birthday. Two weeks at the inside, longer if you’d like. I have a standing reservation at that bistro you liked.”

She stared at him. “Paris?”

He took a breath. “I’ve taken a leave of absence from the Ministry. Not for long, just a few months, but I told them I deserved a vacation and they quite agreed. I thought we both could use the time. Maxstead might have told me what you were planning, though this does explain that ludicrous grin he gave me this morning.”

For one of the few times in her life, Emma was actually speechless. A leave of absence. John Steed, the man who would retire when they buried him and probably not even then, taking a leave of absence. Wanting to spend a few months alone. With her. No Ministry meetings, no diabolical masterminds, no fiendish plots, no mad scientists – no, she realized, Peter Peel. Just them. Alone. Together.

Steed took the tickets from her hand. “But of course, if you’d rather go back to work, then … ”

She cut off his sentence with a rather deep and demanding kiss. He responded with commendable enthusiasm, mouth opening, hands rolling in her hair. Still, when Emma finally pulled away to look him in the eye, he appeared a bit glazed over.

“I take it you’d like to go to Paris.”

“How could you not tell me?”

“For that matter, how could you go over my head like that? As your immediate superior, I’ve a good mind to discipline you soundly.”

She laughed. “We can discuss that later.”

Steed draped his arm around her shoulders. “I am gratified to know that you’re anxious to work with me again.”

“Of course I am. You arranged it that way, didn’t you?”

“Emma, I tell you this as a field agent and not the man who shares your bed: you are the best partner I ever had.” He rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, I say it as the man who shares your bed as well.”

There was nothing she could say. She stood up and held out her hand. 

“Come with me, Steed.”

Leaving the coffee, the danishes and the flowers below stairs, Emma led him up the stairs, back to his bedroom. Their bedroom, really. It might as well have been. She turned to face him and removed the diamond pin fron his tie. 

“You said we have three days before we leave?” she asked.

He watched her hands with great interest as she undid his tie and set to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. 

“I thought you’d want to get in touch with your business manager, your lawyer, handle anything you needed to with … Peel … ”

She stripped off his waistcoat and began – more slowly now, for it was the more pleasurable activity – to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

“My business manager will handle things very well while I’m gone. As for Peter … ”

She paused, looking at the bared skin of his chest. 

“You know, Steed, it was over long ago. It took going back to him to see it.” She looked up into gentle grey eyes and a face that never once lied to her. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m a free woman now.”

“When were you ever not?”

She ran her fingers down his chest, feeling the powerful muscle beneath otherwise soft skin. 

“I want to work with you again because I never had so much fun before. I’m never so … happy, as when I’m with you.”

For a moment neither of them said anything. They just stood in the middle of the room, before the bed, her hand covering his heart. 

“Darling Emma.” His finger beneath her chin turned her face up to his. “Just remember: always keep a catsuit handy, for times of stress, and beware diabolical masterminds.”

He leaned down and kissed her. One hand came up to caress her jaw, fingers pressing into the soft hollow beneath her ear. She held the back of his head, slipping her hand into his wavy hair. His other arm arched her against him. They sank down onto the bed together. There was no more fear, no more uncertainty. She wasn’t going to leave. He wasn’t afraid that she would leave. As his arms came around her, as hers embraced his back, finally and without doubt, she was back where she belonged.


End file.
